


Robert Kirkman never warned me about this...

by alaspoorcarmen



Category: In the Flesh (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/F, F/M, M/M, No Werewolves, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-26 06:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2641067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alaspoorcarmen/pseuds/alaspoorcarmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would Beacon Hills look like if the undead stumbled onto it's streets? How would the community react? No werewolves, zombies are probably enough drama.</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>He looked like shit. The cover-up mousse was two shades too dark so he ended up looking like a cross between Snooki and an oompa loompa. The contacts felt weird in his eyes so he was blinking like crazy, but from afar, he looked halfway normal. If you didn’t count the paleness of his lips or the derpy harry potter movie one eye twitch he was sporting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Road Thus Far

 

“Stiles you’re ready to go home.” A voice soothing yet steadfast reached out to him across the small metal desk.

Panic began bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He was in no way ready for that. “But Doc, I don’t thi-”

“You know we’re closing this facility in a few months, Stiles. You’ve made some great progress during you’re treatment here. You’re not what you were when they first brought you in. What’s your affirmation?” Dark brown eyes stare back at him. Doctor Deaton has been as helpful to him as he has to any other PDS patient, but unrelenting when it came down to it. Needless to say, he didn’t take anyone's bullshit, and truly and genuinely seemed to want to help the patients here. It only took Stiles an entire year to figure that out.

“I still don’t see…” Stiles started only to stop at the upward tick of Deaton's eyebrow.“I am a partially dead syndrome sufferer, and what I did in my untreated state was not my fault. But Doc, I can’t go back, I’m not ready yet. I can transfer to the new facility in San Fran.”

“Stiles, there’s only so much running away you can do. I’m technically not supposed to release this kind of information to patients, but after we called your father, alerting him of your presence here, he’s called in once a month since, to see where you are on your progress. He misses you Stiles. Isn’t that reason enough to go back?”

“Low blow Doc, low blow.” There’s really no going back then. Stiles slumps further into his chair, it’s decided. If his dad wants him back, he’ll go back.

A few hours later, Stiles found himself in a line of other PDS who were also "checking out". A deep rooted part in him hated that they called it that. Like they were staying in a hotel or something, a place where they could easily come and go. He scoffed crossing his arms across his chest as the person before him picked up a small box and turned the corner.

“Brown or blue?” A woman with stick straight black hair that fell over her shoulders beautifully sat behind a small window in the wall, a multitude of boxes behind her. She looked across the small space at Stiles, a blank expression on her face. Stiles could never really tell if the nurse before him ever had an expression other than the uninterested one she was currently sporting. Nurse Morell was Doctor Deaton’s younger sister. Stiles thought it was pretty cool that they allowed them to work in the same facility without any problems.

“Uhh what?” Stiles scratched the back of his head awkwardly as Morell stared back up at him, a familiar upward tick in her brow as she looked at her clipboard. God, that look must run in the family or something…

  
“Your eye color. What color were they before?” She paused, waiting for a response before continuing with, “For your contacts.”

  
Stiles shrugged. His mother used to wax poetics about the whiskey color of his eyes growing up. He always thought they were more of a lightish brown really, but from her two options, he figured they must be fresh out. “Brown?”

  
Morell nodded and pushed a stack of contacts towards him along with another stack of something else. “This is your coverup mousse.”  
Reading the “fair to medium” labeling on the box, Stiles let out an exasperated sigh. Great, so all those years for teasing Lydia about the piles of makeup she used, were about to come bite him in the ass. A bittersweet tug pulled at his chest as he took both stacks into his arms and shuffled back towards his room.

Once back in his room, Stiles sat on the edge of his bed. He'd packed away the little belongings he had, which primary contained his newly acquired "beauty supplies" as soon as he crossed the threshold. He couldn't actually believe it. He was going back to Beacon Hills. He wondered what actually happened to his little town during the rising. 

Stiles sighed and yanked open his bag. "What's the worst that can happen right?" He gnawed on his bottom lip as he pulled out the box with his coverup mousse. He'd seen Lydia put it on thousands of times, it's not like it'll burn his skin, right? Right.

Wrong. He looked like shit. The cover-up mousse was two shades too dark so he ended up looking like a cross between Snooki and an oompa loompa. The contacts felt weird in his eyes so he was blinking like crazy, the mousse covered his moles, but from afar, he looked halfway normal. If you didn’t count the paleness of his lips or the derpy harry potter movie one eye twitch he was sporting.

Stiles supposed he was lucky enough to have facial stitches instead of the staples some of the other PDS’s had. His dad must’ve wanted an open casket, or so he figured. The stitches were just visible with all the makeup, hidden ever so slighty by his hair and eyebrow, but then, he knew what he was looking for. He wondered if he could actually blend with others.

Besides his facial stitches, he also had his own collection of staples, hidden beneath his worn grey sweater. Both were the only things holding his skin together, that spit and a prayer really.

Heaving yet another sigh, Stiles tugged at the grey material, but try as he might, it still hung against his body in the most awkward way. He hadn’t worn anything other than the hospital grade scrubs the treatment center gave him. The local church had donated a bunch of clothes for those who were returning back into civilization. The hem of his hoodie was in the earlier stages of fray, but his constant fiddling with it, wasn’t doing it any good.

For the first time in a long time, Stiles wanted to go home. Wanted to crawl into bed and not have to deal with the fear bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

But at the very same time, he was scared. So scared that his dad wouldn’t really want him back, not when he found out just what he was now. He worried that maybe _that's_ why he called so much, to ask if he really had to take him back. He had heard rumors about what was going on beyond their safe white walls. Had heard about fights out in Texas and London, how some PDS were moved into their old homes only to be executed on their return. But there were also stories about families welcoming back deceased family members with open arms.

“-iles? Stiles?” He turned his head toward the nurse in the doorway. “Stiles, it’s time. Your ride’s here.”

Standing, he took in a deep breath, readjusting his bag across his shoulders as he followed the nurse out into the receiving room. If he could pick any room here that he thought should be permanently condemned, it'd be the receiving room. Stiles hated this room. It was all white, the walls, the curtains, the floor, even the fucking chairs, which granted, weren’t actual chairs, they were concrete benches bolted to the floor. The room was also too open, sure there were supporting beams scattered around, breaking up the empty space, but it still felt sterile. He shuffled forward, his shoulders hunched as his eyes scanned the figures sitting around. Pink, fleshy faces, pulled tight with nerves, there wasn’t a single pin in sight, not a stitch, not a scar, not even a ban-aid over a pimple, just dark circles, worry lines, and the occasional furrowed brow.

Stiles was drawn out of his thoughts when a pair of familiar brown eyes locked onto his. He tentatively stepped closer towards his father, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“Hey Kiddo,” his voice was rougher, as if it hadn’t been used in years. The bags under his eyes spoke of countless sleepless nights. But the one thing Stiles couldn’t ignore was how skinny his dad looked standing before him.

“Dad…” His own voice cracked, his emotions getting the better of him. His father reached forward and pulled Stiles into a crushing bear hug. Stiles instantly wrapped his arms around his father’s back, a wail ripping from his throat. When his father pulled away minutes later, his eyes were puffy, cheeks tear soaked, and shoulder clad in smeared Oopma Loompa makeup.

“C’mon Son. Let’s go home.”


	2. The Path Before Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scenery change!  
> Moving into Beacon Hills!  
> Really really short chapter!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!  
> Thanks for giving this a go!  
> I just got some amazing news about my finals so I thought I'd celebrate with a brand spanking new chapter!

They’ve been sitting in silence for the last twenty three minutes and fifteen, sixteen, seventeen seconds, when Stiles’ father clears his throat breaking the silence.

“Sorry about the lack of radio, Kiddo. The breaker must’ve gone out a while back, I don’t care too much for the stations they’ve got nowadays, so I guess I’ve never actually tired it before now…” He sighs motioning towards the dashboard. Stiles turns his attention away from the passing green blurs beyond the window to the dashboard. He can remember sitting in the front seat with Scott, fiddling around with the knobs. The memory brings a faint smile to his lips.

“I thought you’d rather me pick you up in the cruiser rather than the…” His father’s voice drops suddenly and Stiles' smile fades away to nothing. This was gunna come up sooner or later; he was just banking on the later. Stiles opened his mouth to speak when his father jumped topics; it was enough to give Stiles verbal whiplash. “You’ll see Son, the house is pretty much the same since you last saw it. Only, there’s a shed out back and I redid the basement.”

“Oh did you? Read plenty of how to’s? Did you finally get rid of all those boxes collecting dust down there?” His lips pulled into a faint smirk as he turned back out to the passing scenery. They were getting closer to town. The spaces between dark greens were getting shorter and shorter. 

“I did actually.”

Stiles’ heart dropped. He snapped his gaze back to his father behind the wheel. “Wait, what? You didn’t… Even… Even Mom’s…”

“What? No! I’d never… I moved _all_ the boxes to that storage lot on 47th and Palm when I got word you’d be coming home.”

“Oh.” Stiles let out a relieved breath, looking down at his empty hands. His eyes traced the lines and divots there.

“You’d never guess that we had a rising here in Beacon Hills.” Stiles’ father drums his thumb against the steering wheel as they finally make it into town. The streets aren't bustling with activity like they once were. In fact, they drive past a few boarded up stores with CLOSED scrawled across the wood in brightly colored spray paint. They drive past the bowling alley, completely disserted, windows busted out here and there. Stiles sighs inwardly, as he thinks back to Scott and his misadventures there. He wondered if Scott was still absolute shit at bowling.

“Yeah dad, I’m sure,” he scoffs resting his chin in his hand.

“Good amount of folks left town when people started popping up like daises.”

Stiles smiles against his better judgment, he glances back over to the driver’s seat. His father looks so much… older and even more tired. The lines at the corners of his eyes shallow compared to the ones around his lips and forehead. It hurts to see his dad look this way, but in the very same hand, he looks happy, content. Stiles can’t help but feel a little bit the same. He missed his dad like crazy. This whole time his only wanted to wrap his arms around his shoulders and never let go, but he’s been too worried that he’d only scare the older man away, so he’s kept his distance. “So. Who’s all left? Should I expect the gang to come a’running?”  
His father sits up straighter in his seat, and is quiet for a moment, thinking about the words. “You want the long story or the short?”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why not leave a comment? <3


	3. And so it begins...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and the Sheriff finally make it to Beacon Hills only to be confronted by a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any mistakes or misspellings, this fic is unbetaed.  
> Also I know the chapters are really short, with school and work, finding time to write is near to impossible, but please stick with me!  
> Enjoy! <3

"Okay, so let me get this straight. Scott, sweet yet sometimes extremely dense, crooked jaw Scott joined the HVF with Allison, still going strong I see... The HVF stands for the Human Volunteer Force, a group of people who all rallied together during the rising when the military couldn't make it out here. They’re like a modern day Volunteers during the 20's. They join to keep their own families slash stuff safe. I know I know, not what you said, but I’m reading between the lines.

“Well not so much here in Beacon, but yeah, nevertheless. A large amount of the HVF is still on the lookout for Rabids. We get a straggler here and there in the woods, enough so that they have the support of the community on their side. But they’re still really bitchy on the reintegration subject.”

“Stiles, language. Yes, but I am not going to hide you, Son. I lost you once, I’m not about to do that again. I won’t.” A weird pang pulls at the pit of Stiles’ stomach as he picks at the fraying edge of the seat belt. As he looked back down at his palms, still empty, he could feel every piece of metal in his body holding different chunks of him together.

They've parked his dad’s cruiser on the edge of a park on the other side of town. It’s completely deserted. The only thing that revels the existence of human presences is the gravity scrawled over the walls and jungle gym, _GO TO HELL ROTTERS, Evil Scum_ , and a myriad of other pleasantries.

Stiles assumes from the bordered up utilizes shed, it’s windows impenetrable with charred wood still held in place, that someone must've trapped someone, a rabid most likely in there and made sure they’d never get out again. His heart clenches when he sees the smaller graffiti, only it’s not, it’s a small and delicate mural, painted over the charred remains, a beautiful sunset over looking Beacon Hills, two figures stand hand in hand looking out into the sky. Above it in careful lettering are the words, Emily Navarro. An unfamiliar name to Stiles, but he wishes her well all the same.

Everything inside of him is screaming to open the car door and check out the shed but he knows he can’t just pick up and go like he once could. A wave of gloom washes over him as he turns his attention back to his dad. The furrow in his brow shows him he's not going to back down from his stance on the situation.

A sense of calm pulls at him and bubbles up his curiosity about his friends. His father had easily given up the information about Scott and Allison, but did so with a grim look in his eyes. His other friends, his father had skirted around, Kira, a girl who had just joined their High School senior year was also in the HVF, Stiles remembered her being shy, quiet, but quirky and sweet from his short encounters with the girl. Boyd, one of Stiles' classmates who he'd talk to on a few occasions after an incident with the zamboni, joined the HVF as well after his girlfriend, Erica who had died from a seizure, had come back during the rising, he had personally taken her to a facility. She had yet to return though. No one had until Stiles. Or if they had, it was in the shadows of the night and had yet to resurface. Stiles looked back at the shed, for good reasons too. The rising changed people. That much was obvious to anyone with eyes.

Stiles' father was vague, and detached when reporting about the teenagers. It wasn't until he got to Isaac, did his tone shift, ever so slightly. Isaac Lahey had died not too long after Stiles did. Something about his father pushing him down a flight of stairs and stuffing his body into their fridge in the basement. No one would've found the body either, his father had made up some lie about Isaac going out into the woods in a huff and not ever returning. It wasn't until his brother Cam had return on hearing about his brother's disappearance and took it upon himself to take care of his father. It was then that he had gone downstairs to clean out the basement only to find his brother's body perfectly preserved in the cold. Mr. Lahey had died during the rising, no one questioned the how or why.

The air between the two of them hardens and Stiles wants nothing but to change the subject, something happier. Something strawberry. “And Lydia? What happened to her?”

His father's silence hangs heavy in the air. "C'mon son. Let's get you home."

Stiles feels like he's just been punched in the stomach. Why won't his father tell him about Lydia? Okay, he gets that his infatuation with her was a little obsessive when he was younger, but how should that effect this? Was she married? Was she married to that shithead Jackson Whittemore? A scowl pulled at his lips. But that wouldn't be _too_ terrible news. She might be happy with him... But what would cause his father to  _not_ tell him about her? The metaphorical punch, slaps him in the face. Was she dead? She had to be. The pale look on his father's face confirmed it. Had  _he_ attacked Lydia? During his rabid state, had he attacked his first and probably only love? Stiles opened his mouth the question his father when he caught glimpse of the death grip on the wheel. His knuckles had gone white as the cruiser rolled to a stop. "Dad-?"

"John! Whoa whoa whoa there buddy. Sheriff Stilinski, what've we got here huh?" Pale hands gripped Stiles' cracked  window. Neither Stiles nor John made any attempt to roll it down further. "Look Chris, the Sheriff's really brought home his rotter son!" The pale handed man, lowers his face revealing a head of shaggy unkempt brown hair and stubble to match. "You know, I'd heard the rumors, but if anyone had the balls to do it, it'd be John Stilinski..." He cranes his neck back towards an older man dressed in army fatigues much like his own, only he has both a rifle and a crossbow strapped to his back unlike the brunette's pistol shoved into its holster. Chris, Chris Argent, Allison Argent's father, looked around the brunette to peer into the cruiser, eyes briefly gazing over Stiles' frozen form.

"Matt, get your head outta the Sheriff's car before that thing bites you." Stiles looks away from Chris back to Matt. Matt, why does that sound so familiar? Unless.. Matt  _Daehler_ , the kid in charge of the yearbook committee, the one with his face always shoved behind a camera? Stiles' eyes narrow at Matt's still present hand on his window. Matt looks older now, messy hair and stubble aside. Chris too looks older, his hair was graying on the sides, much like Stiles' own father had. Chris's voice was still gruff and utilitarian as always but now had an almost hallow  _dead_ ring to it.

Questions started piling up in Stiles' head. He opened his mouth to speak when his father's hand gripped his knee a little too tightly. "If you don't have anything else gentlemen, I'd like to get my  _son_ home before next Tuesday." Chris crosses his arms flat over his chest as he motions Matt away from the car with a jerk of his chin, all the while never once looking away from Stiles.

Matt scoffs shaking his head as he pulls away with his hands up in a surrendering motion. "Hey  _Sheriff_ , there's a meeting down in town hall tonight, you're welcome as always, just leave the  _dead_ weight at home."

 


	4. Getting Right to It...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of backstory for the Stilinksi's and the introduction and special someone~

As the cruiser pulls into the driveway, the two Stilinski men sit in silence, or better yet John sits with his hands still gripped tight on the steering wheel while Stiles does his very best not to bounce out of his chair. It was funny, Stiles thought when he died, his nervous ticks and ADHD tendacies would die out too, sadly, they did not.

“That was uh, quite the welcome wagon huh? Thought there’d be at least a banner, maybe a half assed attempt at a balloon arch, but Matt’s weirdly creepy warning was good too I suppose. I think the only thing that would’ve made it better would be if Jackson popped his head out to call me a nerd.” He was babbling, it had been so long since he babbled like this. It had been even longer than he needed to. Back at the treatment center, he never needed to speak more than a handful of words,his motto, and the occasional nonsensical noises.  Stiles turns his attention away from his fraying hem and to the profile of the man sitting besides him. His dad’s face has softened now but there’s a sort of fragility to it now. The man looks like he’s seconds from breaking. Stiles looks back down at his lap, guilt pile driving him lower into his seat. “…Dad?”

\---

“Dad?” Stiles dashes into the kitchen, his sweater halfheartedly slung across his shoulders, “Hey so there’s Blackbean burgers already made, don’t give me that face, I know you secretly like them, ready to eat in the fridge, _if_ you eat them within the next 15 minutes, you won’t have to pop ‘em into the microwave. I’m heading out with Scott, we should be back no later than 12. If I’m not back by 11:54, you have full permission to go all Cop Dad and turn on that tracking device you’ve got on the Jeep. Oh don’t act so surprised, you’ve never ever wanted to wash Roscoe without an ulterior motive, ie: search for drugs, murder weapons, and on one occasion, Ms. Johnson’s Yorkie, which I admit was a hindsight on my part, how was I supposed to know she still wanted the damn thing.” A low, almost inaudible buzz dragged Stiles out of his tangent, urging him to swipe across the screen revealing the new alert. “Scott’s here, okay I’ll see you later, love you, Dad!”

And just as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone. John shakes his head and looks down at his mountain of paper work. He waits until he hears the rumble of the Jeep pulling out of the driveway before crossing the small space to the fridge. Just like his son promised, there between the iceburg lettuce and orange juice is a Tupperware container starting to fog up at the sides. John pulls out the container along with the orange juice and gets his dinner ready. How long had they been doing this? When did Stiles become the cook of the family? He supposes it was sometime after he started picking up more shifts at the station, he had to, Stiles was in his senior year of High School and would be going off to college in the fall. John was planning on surprising his son after their celebratory 100% real meat cheeseburgers and milkshakes after his graduation but before Lydia’s party.

He’d saved enough to not only pay his first two years at San Diego State University, but his third and fourth would be paid for once he latest check came in the mail. Stiles had been adamant about staying in California, he’d gotten into Stanford, UC Berkeley, as well as NYU and Michigan State, but had his heart set on that San Diego Weather, that and something about Comic Con during the summer? John had the inkling feeling that the University’s tuition played into his decision as well, but he wasn’t going to bring _that_ up anytime soon.

John squirted a healthy amount of ketchup onto the top bun of his burger and sighed looking back to his table full of forms.  He missed his wife, she’d always sit with him, the scratching of her pencil filling the room as she sketched, she’d occasionally hum, John would join her, paperwork always got done so much quicker with her there. After her death, both he and Stiles had a hard time coping. Stiles would spend many a night with Scott while John spent the night with a bottle of Jack Daniels. The ache of her presence was like a stone in his pocket ever since then. Some days it felt like a pebble, and other it felt like carrying around a boulder. The pain would never go away, he didn’t want it to. He loved her with his whole being and never wanted to forget that, his thoughts, after it first happened, drifted towards joining her in the great beyond, but he’d glance at Stiles in the living room doing his homework at the coffee table, and the thought would immediately disappear. He loved his son beyond words could ever express, and his son, him. Taking a rather large bite of his still warm blackbean burger, John smiled to himself, chewing. He has a great kid on his hands, he’d do absolutely anything for him, even eat his healthy Vegan food…

\---

 Stiles tilts his head to the side as his father blinks away at something, his face still soft as before. He sighs looking out the window to their front door. He takes in the sight of his old house, the paint has dulled over the years, a few of the windows have been replaced, their glass, newer and thicker looking. It's still the same house he last saw, the same concrete pathway leading from the driveway to the door. The plants and flowers that once lined the path are long gone, nothing but dirt patches in their spot. His lips pull taught at the memory of his mother planted each shrub and bush. "How are we going to do this?"

John sighs, unbuckling his seat belt and pushing open the car door, "One step at a time Stiles, one step at a time.

They walk inside, John carries Stiles's single bag up the stairs and into his old room. Stiles climb up the stairs at a slow pace. He takes each step as carefully and slowly as he can, looking around the house on his way up. His eyes catch on the photos lining the mantle. From here he was just make out the photo of his and his great grandmother when she came to the states for the funeral, the photo of Scott and Stiles when they were 5 dressed up as Batman and Superman grinning like idiots, gap-toothed and all, even his parent's wedding photo, pushed towards the back of the photos, but slightly bigger than the rest, standing up proud over the rest of the just as happy movements. Stiles smiles, and if he could, he'd feel warmth filling his chest. It's times like these he misses the warm fuzzies he'd get from time to time. He sighs, and continues up the rest of the stairs, stopping only when he gets to the open door frame of his old room. Everything is exactly the same way he'd left it. He was expecting maybe his dad to cram some boxes in here, or even to shut the door and never open it again, but instead, the room is spiderweb free, the bed made, the room is  _tidy._  Like if he were expecting company and decided to make the room look presentable. He tries to think about his last time in this room, he'd rushed out, leaving behind a pile of clothes, books all over the floor, and especially his laptop blaring music... He imagines his father coming home and finding Stiles's messy room, had he cleaned it up immediately? Maybe he left it sitting for a few days and came in to tell Stiles to shut off his music only to find an empty room? Stiles instantly feels terrible. 

"I've unpacked your things for you. Put your clothes back into your drawers and such. Didn't know where you'd want everything else so I left those still in your duffle..." John wipes his hands on his pants nervously, "I've got dinner in the oven so I expect to see you down in two hours." He closes the space between the two of them, putting a hand on Stiles's shoulder and gripping tight, he leans in, pressing their heads together, the touch is foreign and unfamiliar, but the younger of the two leans into instinctively, "I've... I... Glad your home again Kiddo."

Stiles opens his mouth to speak when a buzzer goes off in the kitchen downstairs. John lets out a huff, offering his son a lopsided smile, and leaves the room giving his shoulder one last squeeze. Stiles tracks his father's movement out of the room and down into the hallway. He stands in the middle of the room staring at nothing in particular. It's been years since he last stood here. Years since he last saw his father, felt him squeeze his shoulder comfortingly, smelt the stale air in his room from never opening his window, and he missed it all. He runs a hand over the window frame, the bumps and curves of the wood tickling his fingertips. Tilting his head back, he can almost hear the voices of years ago, calling out to him from the ground below, begging him to join them for a game of tag. His lips curl into an echo of a smile as the memory fades away. Stiles knows he's home,  _knows_ he's in the house he grew up in,  _knows_ he's where he should be, but what he can't wrap his head around is the ache of unfamiliarity that comes with it. Sure, he has a handful of memories of running up the stairs with Scott, playing video games with Jackson as Lydia and Allison chatted on his bed, cooking with his parents, but there's so much that's foggy, so much that he can't piece together. Memories... Memories were always the trickier part of reintegration. They were the part of the brain that shut down while in the rabid state, no need for them, you acted on instinct, no fight or flight, just hunger, insatiable hunger that pulled at you constantly. A hunger that ripped into you as the blood trickled down your chin, pooled under your finger nails, filled in ever gaping hole in the pit of your stomach.

Stiles stumbled back onto the bed, his head spinning as he tried to get his breathing under control. His vision was going in and out and he briefly caught the image of a figure gripping his shoulder trying to get into his line of vision. Strawberry blonde waves bounced around as Stiles finally caught a pair of chestnut brown eyes staring back at him. Lydia. "Stiles, Stiles look at me." Her voice was clear and solid, even fading in and out as Stiles blinked back at her, still trying to right himself. "-ive, six, seven, c'mon Stiles say it with me..."

Seeing, more than actually feeling, Stiles' head flopped forward, his chin resting against his chest as he opened his mouth, forcing the words to come, "seven..." They felt like lead as they spilled out of his mouth, "Eight, nine... Ten." And then gradually, things lightened, the words came slightly easier, his vision cleared and he could make out fully the figure before him. It really was Lydia, her hair pulled into a high bun that rested on the top of her head. "Lydia Martin, as I live and breathe..." He let out a shaky breath, smirking up at her.

"Hah, very funny. I see your sorry ass still needs saving, even after all these years." She crossed her arms over her chest, looking smugly down her nose at him for half a second before losing the facade and dropping down next to him, pulling him into a crushing hug. "Jesus Stiles..."

"It's just Stiles, if you please," he snorted, wrapping his arms around her tentatively. He'd forgotten how tactile his friends and family were. It was a nice change of pace from the sterile cold harsh-ity of the institute. Lydia pulled away, but only far enough to smack him soundly on the shoulder before muttering what Stiles could assume what the utmost sweetest of endearments. He took in the sight of her, she, like Matt, looked older, more sophisticated, he didn't expect anything else from her. "You look beautiful Lyds," he smiled softly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.

She scoffed rolling her eyes, "You look the way you did the last time I saw you..." her features softened as she reached forward, cupping his cheek in her hand. "You're so cold..." Her eyes looked almost sad as she continued, "God Stiles, I never thought I'd be able to do this again..."

It was his turn to scoff and roll his eyes. "Dying will do that to a guy."

Lydia smacked him again, "You know what I mean, Jerk." She sighed and looked over her shoulder, "Your dad invited me for dinner and said I should hurry you along, he hasn't eaten since yesterday." Stiles nodded and rose from the bed. Lydia looked him once over before linking her arm in his. "We're going to have to do something about all this after dinner you know." She beamed as she practically pulled him down the stairs to join his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone for their encouraging words!  
> I finally had a break in work and classes and thought I'd treat both you and myself to a shiny new chapter!
> 
> I changed my URL!  
> whothehellisgreenburg.tumblr.com  
> so if you want to get a hold of me


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is doing his best to make his son feel at home in his childhood house.  
> Lydia's there too if that's any indication.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!  
> Guess who's on summer vacation?? This girl!  
> So as a celebration, here's a quick little update.  
> I just want to say thank you for all of your bookmarks, kudos, comments, and etc. they mean the world too me!  
> so without any further hesitation, the story!

“That was uh, quite the welcome wagon huh? Thought there’d be at least a banner, maybe a half assed attempt at a balloon arch, but Matt’s weirdly creepy warning was good too I suppose. I think the only thing that would’ve made it better would be if Jackson popped his head out to call me a nerd.” He was babbling, it had been so long since he babbled like this. It had been even longer than he needed to. Back at the treatment center, he never needed to speak more than a handful of words,his motto, and the occasional nonsensical noises.  Stiles turns his attention away from his fraying hem and to the profile of the man sitting besides him. His dad’s face has softened now but there’s a sort of fragility to it now. The man looks like he’s seconds from breaking. Stiles looks back down at his lap, guilt pile driving him lower into his seat. “…Dad?”

\---

“Dad?” Stiles dashes into the kitchen, his sweater halfheartedly slung across his shoulders, “Hey so there’s Blackbean burgers already made, don’t give me that face, I know you secretly like them, ready to eat in the fridge, _if_ you eat them within the next 15 minutes, you won’t have to pop ‘em into the microwave. I’m heading out with Scott, we should be back no later than 12. If I’m not back by 11:54, you have full permission to go all Cop Dad and turn on that tracking device you’ve got on the Jeep. Oh don’t act so surprised, you’ve never ever wanted to wash Roscoe without an ulterior motive, ie: search for drugs, murder weapons, and on one occasion, Ms. Johnson’s Yorkie, which I admit was a hindsight on my part, how was I supposed to know she still wanted the damn thing.” A low, almost inaudible buzz dragged Stiles out of his tangent, urging him to swipe across the screen revealing the new alert. “Scott’s here, okay I’ll see you later, love you, Dad!”

And just as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone. John shakes his head and looks down at his mountain of paper work. He waits until he hears the rumble of the Jeep pulling out of the driveway before crossing the small space to the fridge. Just like his son promised, there between the iceburg lettuce and orange juice is a Tupperware container starting to fog up at the sides. John pulls out the container along with the orange juice and gets his dinner ready. How long had they been doing this? When did Stiles become the cook of the family? He supposes it was sometime after he started picking up more shifts at the station, he had to, Stiles was in his senior year of High School and would be going off to college in the fall. John was planning on surprising his son after their celebratory 100% real meat cheeseburgers and milkshakes after his graduation but before Lydia’s party.

He’d saved enough to not only pay his first two years at San Diego State University, but his third and fourth would be paid for once he latest check came in the mail. Stiles had been adamant about staying in California, he’d gotten into Stanford, UC Berkeley, as well as NYU and Michigan State, but had his heart set on that San Diego Weather, that and something about Comic Con during the summer? John had the inkling feeling that the University’s tuition played into his decision as well, but he wasn’t going to bring _that_ up anytime soon.

John squirted a healthy amount of ketchup onto the top bun of his burger and sighed looking back to his table full of forms.  He missed his wife, she’d always sit with him, the scratching of her pencil filling the room as she sketched, she’d occasionally hum, John would join her, paperwork always got done so much quicker with her there. After her death, both he and Stiles had a hard time coping.

Stiles would spend many a night with Scott while John spent the night with a bottle of Jack Daniels. The ache of her presence was like a stone in his pocket ever since then.

Some days it felt like a pebble, and other it felt like carrying around a boulder. The pain would never go away, he didn’t want it to. He loved her with his whole being and never wanted to forget that, his thoughts, after it first happened, drifted towards joining her in the great beyond, but he’d glance at Stiles in the living room doing his homework at the coffee table, and the thought would immediately disappear. He loved his son beyond words could ever express, and his son, him.

Taking a rather large bite of his still warm blackbean burger, John smiled to himself, chewing. He has a great kid on his hands, he’d do absolutely anything for him, even eat his healthy Vegan food…

\---

 Stiles tilts his head to the side as his father blinks away at something, his face still soft as before. He sighed looking out the window to their front door. He takes in the sight of his old house, the paint has dulled over the years, a few of the windows have been replaced, their glass, newer and thicker looking.

It's still the same house he last saw, the same concrete pathway leading from the driveway to the door. The plants and flowers that once lined the path are long gone, nothing but dirt patches in their spot. His lips pull taught at the memory of his mother planted each shrub and bush. "How are we going to do this?"

John sighs, unbuckling his seat belt and pushing open the car door, "One step at a time Stiles, one step at a time.

They walk inside, John carries Stiles's single bag up the stairs and into his old room. Stiles climb up the stairs at a slow pace. He takes each step as carefully and slowly as he can, looking around the house on his way up.

His eyes catch on the photos lining the mantle. From here he was just make out the photo of his and his great grandmother when she came to the states for the funeral, the photo of Scott and Stiles when they were 5 dressed up as Batman and Superman grinning like idiots, gap-toothed and all, even his parent's wedding photo, pushed towards the back of the photos, but slightly bigger than the rest, standing up proud over the rest of the just as happy movements.

Stiles smiles, and if he could, he'd feel warmth filling his chest. It's times like these he misses the warm fuzzies he'd get from time to time. He sighs, and continues up the rest of the stairs, stopping only when he gets to the open door frame of his old room.

Everything is exactly the same way he'd left it. He was expecting maybe his dad to cram some boxes in here, or even to shut the door and never open it again, but instead, the room is spiderweb free, the bed made, the room is  _tidy._  Like if he were expecting company and decided to make the room look presentable.

He tries to think about his last time in this room, he'd rushed out, leaving behind a pile of clothes, books all over the floor, and especially his laptop blaring music... He imagines his father coming home and finding Stiles's messy room, had he cleaned it up immediately? Maybe he left it sitting for a few days and came in to tell Stiles to shut off his music only to find an empty room? Stiles instantly feels terrible. 

"I've unpacked your things for you. Put your clothes back into your drawers and such. Didn't know where you'd want everything else so I left those still in your duffle..." John wipes his hands on his pants nervously, "I've got dinner in the oven so I expect to see you down in two hours." He closes the space between the two of them, putting a hand on Stiles's shoulder and gripping tight, he leans in, pressing their heads together, the touch is foreign and unfamiliar, but he leans into instinctively, "I've... I... Glad your home again Kiddo."

Chicken Parmesan Alfredo. It used to be Stiles’ favorite dish. His mom used to make it on his birthday. But she’d occasionally make it when Stiles would come home crying after falling from a tree, or getting caught in the rain sopping wet, mud clinging to his round chubby face. She would smile, wipe at the spot under his eyes and press her lips gingerly to his forehead and gather the ingredients for the meal.

The memory of the smell lingers within, the warmth of the meat pressed up against the roof of his mouth inching closer to the forefront of his mind. Stiles stares down at the plate, unsure of what to do. Both Lydia and his father have started eating and from their small grunts of pleasure, it’s good. Stiles can no longer smell the different herbs used in the breading, he can no longer feel the warmth pillowing up into his face. He knows what’ll happen id he tries to eat any real food. It’ll just reappear, covered in sickly black goo, almost like tar, that’s been sitting stagnate in the pit of his belly. He looks up from his plate, both his dad and Lydia have stopped eating, they’re staring at him, unsure of what to do themselves.

“The food looks great Dad. It’s shame I can’t actually eat any of it…” Stiles offers the older man sitting besides him a lopsided smile.

“You can’t… Is something wrong Son? Will this, uh, will it mix badly with the treatment?” His father puts down his fork and knife, turning his body to better face Stiles.

“If I can interject here,” Lydia brushed the wave of Strawberry Blonde hair back over her shoulder as she took another dainty bite of chicken. “The PDSS’s body no longer produces the enzymes that breaks down food the way we still do. Therefore, if they consume so much as a bite of say Babcia Stilinski’s world famous Chicken Parm, well let’s just say it wouldn’t be winning any blue ribbons anytime soon. Scientists, up in DC, are working on a way, other than the injections, to keep the PDSS’s hunger at bay.” She inspects her nail beds with a bored look. “For all that brain power, they sure are taking their sweet time.”

Both Stilinski men stare at her, their mouths slightly agape. She rolls her eyes before turning her attention back to the food before her. StIles blinks down at his own plate, before looking back up at his dad. “I-uhh I guess I should’ve looked over those pamphlets Melissa brought over before doing all this. Huh Kiddo?” Stiles can’t exactly place the look on his dad’s face. It’s like their back in the car again. His face is wavering between his previous mask and the broken man beneath it.

“Dad, no it’s fine really. I mean there’s a whole bunch of things we’re going to have to relearn. But I don’t mind this, really. It’s like old times. It’s nice…” Stiles voice drifts off as he reaches across the table to his father’s hand. “Thank you, honestly, thanks Dad.” They both give each other a weak smile as they stare at each other.

“So I assume now’s a good a time as any to tell you Melissa McCall just pulled into your driveway then?” Lydia has resumed her diner as if their father son moment hadn’t affected her whatsoever. Stiles cranes his neck to see that in fact, Scott’s mom is really stepping out of a white beat-up four door. If he looked close enough, he could make out just the hint of dried blood on the bottom left corner of the front license plate, ever the reminder of the time they were living in he supposed.

“What’s she doing here? Not that I mind, of course. Just the audience would like to know, you know?”

“Stiles, she’s the PDSS Rep of Beacon Hills.”


	6. No Body Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy hey babes and babaroonies!  
> Sorry this took forever to pop out, things are finally cooking up!  
> I just want to say thanks to everyone who's stuck it out so far, six chapters of just background building...  
> Alright, enough chitchat! To the story!!

Okay so this was weird.

This was really _really_ weird.

Stiles didn’t think this whole situation could get any weirder but it does, who is he kidding, it _always_ does.

Melissa McCall is dressed in her oh-too-familiar purple and blue scrubs with the white stripe detailing on the seams, she’s got an old beat-up sidebag draped over her shoulder, her tightly wound curls are pulled haphazardly into a ponytail in the back of her head and she’s talking to Stiles’ dad in the kitchen about the pamphlets in her hand.

Stiles heaved a sigh, his shoulder slumping against the couch behind him. So she really was the Beacon Hills PDSS Rep. Stiles had heard about members of the community in other towns coming forward to help transition the PDSS back into their homes. Some families, like in Stiles’ case, welcome back their Partially Deceased with open arms. Others aren’t as lucky, most of their remaining family members might have died during the uprising, or find it too difficult to have them back in their homes. It’s here that the county Rep steps in, they often find a place of residence for the PDSS, and come by daily to administer any help needed.

Stiles sneaks a glance at his dad, the elder man’s face drawn in concentration, nodding occasionally as he takes in what Melissa tells him. Stiles purses his lips as his mind wanders. How easily his dad could have looked the other way when they contacted him, how simpler his life would’ve been without having a freak for a son, yet again. Stiles is so thankful to be able to be home again. Yes, he initially didn’t want to leave the institution, but he’d rather be here than anywhere else. It feels awkward and stiff most of the time, but he’s home, he’s in the house where he grew up, he’s with his dad, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Alright John, if you’re ready, we’ll give Stiles here, his daily dose, now from tomorrow on, you’ll need to pick a time that’s good for you to give him his injection, this needs to be at the same time every day, and as long as it’s within the same hour or so, we should be good.” Melissa smiles encouragingly as she leads the elder Stilinski to the couch. Lydia shifts from her seat besides Stiles to the Lazy Boy across from him. Her lips curl into a soft secret smile as if to say she’s only an arm’s reach away, but far enough where an involuntary spasm wouldn’t harm her. Stiles is suddenly both relieved and worried. He sits up straighter, his shoulders rolling into place as he leans his head down for better access to his neck.

“You see this hole right here? You need to line up the needle and once you feel it go right between the first and second vertebrae, just go ahead and press the trigger and hold him down. I’ll do it today, and then leave it to you here on out.” Stiles can hear the smile in her words, he looks over at Lydia who’s going back and forth from craning her neck to see what’s going on behind him to smiling softly at Stiles. He swallows and waits for the injection, “Alright, line up, press, wait for the click and—“

_The lights flicker, and a faint hiss fills the room. Cold eyes search the small space but find nothing. A body shuffles forward, hunger, a primal sense of longing pulls the body to its next meal. The body’s been searching for a while now, yet finds nothing. The body steps into the light, this one not flickering, it looks up, at the emptiness, and a drop of something falls against it’s cheek. The body cocks it’s head at the sensation, another drop, and another, and another._

_The body blinks it’s cold eyes up at the source, it’s nose twitching at the familiar scent. A pink elongated arm sticks out of the rubble, its silhouette barely illumined by the moonlight. The body growls,_ food _, it reaches up its arms to grab he still warm flesh. Another drop falls into the body’s mouth and the hunger deep inside grows. The body’s arms start grabbing more viciously, sedation is just a fingertip away. When at last, the body’s nails rip into flesh and pull, a faint pained groan comes from above. The body groans and reaches up pulling again, blood and skin collecting under it’s nails, there’s no reciprocal groan this time, but the body is insistent, it pulls one last time and an entire person comes falling down._

_The body falls to it’s knees as it immediately tears and pulls at the fallen debris around the new pink body before him. It’s a woman, her golden hair stained beautifully with blood, she moans looking around, she blinks up at the body’s cold eyes and there’s a brief moment of recognition before the body grabs her head and smashes it repeatedly. Only stopping when her skull is cracked open revealing the soft meat beneath, the body’s hand reaches forward tentatively pulling before lifting it’s fingers to its mouth savoring the bitter metallic taste, the body goes in for more and more, grunting louder and louder each time…_

_“_ Jesus… And he’s gotta go through that once a day?”

“’Fraid so John.” Melissa’s smile has softened to an almost frown. She sighs and starts putting away the kit. “So I’ll be leaving you a three month dosage, after the prescription’s up, I’ll come round and give you your next supply of medicine.”

Stiles blinks away the distant memory, it’s been a while since he had a flashback while he was rabid. He looks down at his hands, he can practically feel the blood pooling under his fingernails.

“And you said the medicine, this Neurotripyline, it keeps the whole ‘being rabid’ at bay?" John asks putting the needle back into it’s foam lined case.

“Well technically, it rebuilds brain cells, but I suppose in a round about way it keeps it at bay, yeah.” Stiles sighed, his shoulders rolling forward as he eased out of his previous, more tense position. As Stiles turns his gaze back towards Lydia, there’s the usual curious spark in her eye. She smirks before opening her mouth.

“Stiles is right, the neurotripyline helps with the reconstruction of brain cells, but there are some negative side effects, such as insomnia, vivid dreams, involuntary recurrent memories, lethargy, depression, panic attacks-“ Stiles barks out a laugh, while Lydia gives him a side eye before continuing, “Fever, convulsions, and nausea. As inconvenient as the side effects may be, their presence means the PDS sufferer is recovering, their body is actually responding to the medicine.” Melissa purses her lips impressed by Lydia’s knowledge on the subject but she’s in no way surprised. A few months after the rising, Lydia threw herself into learning about all things Undead and the like. Melissa smiles softly at the girl before collecting her things.

“Not that you need me to say it, but Lydia is 100 percent right on the money. If you have any questions whatsoever, John or Stiles, please don’t hesitate to ask. My cell is always charged. Now if you don’t mind, you Stilinski’s aren’t the only patient on my hit parade.” She smiles and heads towards the door.

“MELISSA!” Stiles leapt to his feet, his hand outreached towards her, his sudden outburst more of an involuntary action than anything else. Melissa though, slowly turns back around to face the paler than usual Stiles, the ever present McCall smile on her lips. “Yes Stiles?”

“You, uh, you haven’t told Scott I’m back yet have you?”

Melissa released her hold on the doorknob, leading out of the house. “No, I can’t say I have. Patient confidentiality and all.”

“Is he, is he alright? I mean, he’s fine right?” Stiles began chewing on his bottom lip.

“He’s alright, Stiles. A little worse for wear, but there are very few who aren’t anymore…”

“Right, right. Of course. Zombie apocalypse n’ all. If it comes up, can you tell him I say hey? I mean only if it comes up or something, of course?”

Melissa’s smile shifts into that of a softer more lopsided one. “Of course Stiles, of course.”


	7. Brevity is the soul of wit

Stiles watched out of his bedroom window, his hand on the pane as his eyes tracked the bounce of strawberry blonde waves as they made their way to their owner’s shiny black bmw.

_That was new_ , Stiles thought with a smirk. He took a step away from the window as Lydia drove off, down the street.

Everything in his room was exactly the same as when he last saw it, only now there was a layer of dust covering just about everything in sight.

 Stiles wrapped his arms around his middle. It all felt eerily familiar. It reminded him of his mom when she… when she died.

His dad had left her things laying around the house for months. It wasn’t until 6 months after, did he put everything away into boxes.

But by that time, Stiles already had a shoebox dedicated to only things that reminded him of her, her perfume, one of her favorite dresses, pictures of her, a doodle she made one rainy afternoon when Stiles caught a cold.

Stiles crouched down besides his bed, pulling out the old tattered shoe box. He scoffed at the choice of shoes the box once held,  _Heelies_  and bright blue too, God the 90’s were unkind to us all.

Peeling back the lid, Stiles held his breath. It all felt so unreal. He slowly pulled out the dress, it was eaten to death by moths and he cursed at all the holes in the fabric.

 Running his hands across the material, Stiles could almost picture his mother wearing the dress once more. Her hands playing idly with the hem as she walked besides him.

He smiled faintly, hugging the dress to his face, breathing in the scent of her. It was long gone by now, just the memory of a smell really.

Next to come out was her perfume; again, time had been unkind to the poor bottle. The top bit had clogged years ago, the liquid inside gone.

Stiles placed the perfume on his desk with a sigh before putting the dress back into the box and pushing it back under his bed.

He looked around his room from his seat on the floor. Although his room had grown with him past his high school phase, he’d been meaning to change it before he… He groaned tossing his head back against the bed. Well he had nothing  _but_  time now.

* * *

 

Things weren’t amazingly awesome, but they weren’t terrible either.

“I suppose it’s out of necessity really. Can’t say I blame the guy though. Whatd’ya think Scott?”

Scott McCall snapped his head up at the sound of his name. He looked at the figure besides him. Kira Yukimura, was staring out at the open road before her. They were heading out to their nightly patrol around the Beacon Hills perimeter.

After the uprising, the remaining townsfolk gathered and came up with the HVF, the Human Volunteer Force, true to its name; the HVF was made of brave individuals who volunteered their services to keep the peace in their city as well as take out any zombies that came through the cracks.

Some of those individuals were more liberal with the sense of peace nowadays, not that Scott was pointing any fingers of course, Matt… Although the number of attacks have decreased drastically, the occasional walker finds a way through the perimeter, and it’s up to the remaining members of the HVF to maintain the town’s safety.

Kira turned her head slightly to catch Scott’s gaze, a worried look crossed her face before returning to the road before her. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Scott’s face contorted ever so slightly as he watched the trees whizz by, the green of their leaves bleeding together in a blur.

He wanted to laugh. Ever since he found out Stiles had been found lurking around Beacon Valley, he couldn’t stop thinking about him.

It was like he was everywhere, in the idioms he used to love spouting off on the daily, to the broken down jeep sitting in the old used car lot on the edge of town. It looked nothing like Stiles’ jeep, but that didn’t stop the pang in his chest as they drove past it each night.

“That’s a pretty low offer for all this,” Scott teased tapping his index finger against his temple.

“Of but of course your Highness, how could I forget. Nothing but the best for Argent’s favorite little soldier,” Kira quipped turning off the main road and down the beaten path towards the preserve. Scott sighed, rolling his eyes as he kept his eyes on the road, watching the trees whiz by them.

“I’m not his  _favorite_ …”

“Oh, yeah sure, and I’m  _not_  the complete and total queen of kicking your ass at Mortal Combat.” They both laughed as Kira made one last left hand turn before putting the car into park. “Ready to rock and roll,  _geek_?”

“As I’ll ever be, _nerd_ ,” Scott muttered with a smirk as he slid out of the passenger’s side, grabbing his AR-15 from the backseat. Ever since they were paired up together, they’ve found it easier and easier to have this sort of ebb and flow between them. It made the mundane tasks they were dealt that much less incredibly and terribly mundane.

The two walked together in silence. It was almost nice, the crisp cool air nipping at their cheeks and noses, the crunch of the forest floor beneath their boots, down to the chatter of the night, crickets, cicadas, and the like. There was just one thing that could ruin a possibly semi-romantic walk through the woods.

Scott resituated his grip on his gun’s strap. “So we still on for movie night later? Just got a new box of microwave popcorn?” He glanced back over his shoulder, as they followed along the fence.

“Scott McCall, is this an invitation to simply makeout on the couch while the Avengers plays in the background?” Kira chimed back, her voice mock offended.

“We don’t always just makeout. Sometimes we take a snack break.” They laughed again, Kira shoving Scott’s free arm playfully. She opened her mouth to reply, when she closed it just as quickly, her eyes squinting in the dark.

“Looks like we’ve come across how they’ve been getting in recently.” Kira sighed pushing her weapon of choice, a katana, one her mother said has been in the family for generations, back over her shoulder as she crouched by a hole in the fence.

“Doesn’t look like anything’s squeezed through in a few days, there’s a bit of skin on the bottom right of the fence but hardly looks fresh, could be the rotter from the High School we found Tuesday. He had some scratches on ‘em.” Scott crouched down in front of the fence, poking the break in the chainlink with the butt of his gun.

“Or it could have something to do with the sightings down near the Mini-Mart. Better call this in to Boyd. Send someone in the morning to patch things up.” Kira shifted on her feet as she cocked her head to the side, pressing the talk button on their walkies. “Hey B. We’ve got a hole in the bucket in the fourth quadrant, just around the corner from makeout rock. Over.”

There was silence for a brief moment before the walkie on Kira’s shoulder crackled back, “I hear you, Hole in the Bucket, Fourth Quad. I’ll send Jimmy out in the AM to fix it. Over and Out.”

Kira smirked turning back towards Scott. “Shall we continue this lovely stroll then?”

Scott scoffed, his eyes still locked on the chainlink that’s been forcefully pulled apart. “We shall.”

* * *

 

Stiles spent the entire night rearranging his room. He’d completely changed the entire layout of the small space, he took down his old posters and sketches but had left some of his old photos on the wall.

He made a list of all the things he’d need to finish the room.

First and foremost, paint. He was thinking of something in the shade of blue, or gray, but probably more blue.

Second, frames, the photographs were starting to curl from being out in the open to long.

Next, he wanted some new books for his bookshelves, the books currently residing there had all been read ages ago, and as much as he’d love to read them all again, he’d like to expand his horizons.

Finally, a laptop, he couldn’t find his old one anywhere, not in his room, the garage, or even the attic.

He actually feels a little guilty about the last one, but he’s crawling out of his skin being home and not having anything to do with all his newfound free time.

He supposes he could sleep, but that’d just lead to unwanted memories. It’s at times like this he wishes he’d taken up a hobby before dying. Who knows, before kicking the bucket, he could’ve been the world’s next Van Gogh, just sans the depression and absinthe.

Stiles sighed, his attention turning to the world outside his bedroom window. He could make out the break of sunlight, the sweet chirps of birds waking. He must’ve worked straight through the night and into the morning. Not an unusual sort of thing, in fact it was more likely to happen than not throughout his high school career. It didn’t matter if he was studying or trying to beat just one last level before nodding off, he’d make it to sunrise then collapse.

As if by muscle memory, Stiles yawned, his arms stretching out almost comically. He blinked looking around his room. It was still the same room he’d grown up in, but now it didn’t hurt to see how much his death had affected his father.

It looked like what he’d been planning on doing when he moved out anyways. It just wouldn’t do for a college  _man_  to come home to a high school  _kid’s_  room. He smiled sleepily, his fingers playing with the comforter on his bed.

Stiles sighed again, plopping back into bed. Today would be his first real day back home. His first day as Beacon Hill’s Newest Partially Deceased Sufferer, he’d be lying if the whole idea scared the crap out of him…


End file.
